Either way, it was a job for the AirCav, Ockerman thought.
In the back of the systems engineer’s mind, he knew that no matter how Hylander preferred his test subjects, it was up to the man in the command seat whether the prey got captured or killed. Colonel Gab-hart and Hylander could monitor what he was doing in the air, even see what he was seeing through his visor, but they couldn’t remote-pilot the ship, or keep him from using its laser cannons, if the mood struck,
Ockerman’s mood at that moment was for a wipe-out.
A total fucking wipeout.
Hanging at summit height, he turned on the airship’s laser-guided microphones, which provided pinpoint audio surveillance. Within a narrow field of search, he scanned for the rattle of gear, for footfalls, for coughs. As he listened, he realized that he was holding his breath, even though that wasn’t necessary.
“Hey, Ockerman!” Colonel Gabhart said through the comm link, “I hope you’re not contracting wood on us up there. Your blood pressure is flying higher than you are. You’d better start breathing through your nose, or you’re going to blow an artery.”
“Roger, that, Colonel.”
Ockerman shut down the air-to-ground comm link, let out a howl and turned another five-g aerial somersault. After that, he had to briefly shut off his link with Hylander as well. The yelling hurt his ears.
It had been a long time since Ockerman had flown in an actual combat situation, and the action he’d seen had been very limited. Most of the fighting in the Consumer Rebellion had taken place inside the megalopolises, street to street, building to building. Assault gyros couldn’t operate at their full potential in the enclosed, high-density, ultraurban environment. Shadow World, on the other hand, was made to order for them. It had wide-open spaces. No flight ceiling. No ground-to-air missiles.
A bell tone sounded in his helmet, indicating the computer had completed its search pattern without scoring a hit. He opened the comm link to his passenger; Hylander had settled into a sullen silence. Ockerman shifted the gyro’s position to take in a new section of ridge. The onboard computer did the rest of the work, precisely aiming the laser mike within the assigned grid.
The sensor picked up a brief clatter of sliding rock.
Ockerman zoomed in with the infrared on the identified area. Everything was greenish blue. There were no halos of yellow behind the outcrops, outlines of humans in hiding. No sign of animals, either. He decided it had been a natural event, caused by the erosion of the bedrock.
The bell tone chimed. Search pattern complete.
Ockerman turned the airship another ten degrees of arc and resumed the scan. Almost at once, the laser mike picked up a human voice at a decibel level that was no more than a whisper.
The voice gasped, “Oh, shit.”
“Famous last words,” Ockerman said.
J.B. FELT AS IF HE WERE staring down a mutie mountain lion or grizz as one hundred yards away, a black specter hovered against the backdrop of stars. Even at that distance, its propeller blades were going whup-whup-whup inside his chest.
If he could see the plane, he knew it could see him.
A machine like that had to have a whole lot of technology that could search out people. Since blas-terfire seemed to have no effect on the craft, there was no point in wasting it.
They had one hope of surviving the next few hours, and it was slim, at best. What they needed was hardened shelter, someplace that would stand up to the laser cannons. But finding it in the dismal half-light with the aircraft in pursuit was going to be difficult.
Turning his back to the machine, he spoke softly to the companions, “Retreat. One file. Tight. I’m point.”
Assuming they’d already been spotted, there was nothing to be gained by a stealthy exit. J.B. burst from behind the outcrop and charged full tilt, boots thudding across a stretch of open ground. He ducked between the ridge’s tall spires and kept on going. At his back he heard the grunts and curses from the others as they fought to keep up. Despite their best effort, they were slow-moving targets, and their escape route was entirely predictable, dictated by the impassable spires of rock.